


Fervor

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Magi: Adventures of Sinbad (manga)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Developing Relationship, First Aid, First Kiss, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Power Dynamics, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-11-02 06:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20650667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Ja’far feels Sinbad’s presence in the prickling tension of the small hairs at the back of his neck, that lift like they’re catching the sparks of Sinbad’s Djinn Equip into Ja’far’s very blood." Sinbad makes a demand of Ja'far after the capture of Zepar.





	Fervor

Ja’far is struggling with bandaging himself up. It’s not from a lack of ability, of course. His training incorporated a wide-ranging grounding in means of doing damage to others, but even the best assassins take injuries in the course of their efforts. Some of the best assassinations require such, to bring down the target’s guard or gain access to a measure of trust, and Ja’far has perfected those techniques with the same absolute focus that he turned on his more offensive attacks. The basic principles of first aid after the fact are a necessity, to prevent bleeding out if nothing else, and the first thing Ja’far does after their escape from Zepar’s dungeon is turn himself to handling those with all the skill in which he was trained.

That still doesn’t make it an easy undertaking. He’s covered in cuts, some of them deep enough that they are still oozing a sluggish trail of blood along his thigh or trickling acorss his arm, and even after he’s dealt with the self-inflicted wound that forms the worst of his injuries the sheer quantity of what remains would be enough to daunt a lesser assassin. Ja’far takes stock of his bloody skin and aching body with clinical attention to the range and danger of each wound, and then he begins with the worst of them and starts the lengthy process of binding himself up.

He doesn’t ask for help. Ja’far prides himself on being self-sufficient, and several of their party are no better off than he, if somewhat less bloodstained. Masrur watches him for a period, dark-lined eyes staring out of an expressionless face as Ja’far wraps bandages around his legs, but he doesn’t offer assistance, and after several minutes he gets to his feet to step away towards the other side of the space, where the rest of their group is gathered together to discuss the unanticipated outcome of their expedition and the impending return to Heliohapt. Ja’far appreciates the brief privacy, as much for the peace as the lack of audience for his struggles to bind a bandage one-handed around his forearm, and he sets himself to his task so he can be ready to move again the sooner.

He can feel Sinbad’s approach. The sound of the other’s footsteps is clear, with less weight than Hinahoho’s heavy pace but force enough to speak to Sinbad’s resolve in moving forward, no matter what path stretches before him. The noise would be enough on its own, as would the shift of shadow that reaches to brush against Ja’far’s hair as Sinbad comes closer to him; but most of all Ja’far feels Sinbad’s presence in the prickling tension of the small hairs at the back of his neck that lift like they’re catching the sparks of Sinbad’s Djinn Equip into Ja’far’s very blood. Ja’far pauses in what he’s doing, hesitating for a breath under the force of Sinbad’s attention, before he lifts his head to look up and meet the stare fixed on him.

Sinbad is standing over him, turned entirely in to face Ja’far sitting at the far corner of the space where they have paused to collect themselves. His feet are braced wide into his habitual stance; it makes him look unmoveable, as if he intends to stride forward and simply walk through whatever obstacles may be foolish enough to put themselves in his path. Right now that path is directed at Ja’far in front of him, and whatever intimidation Sinbad’s position provides is underscored by the set of his jaw and the dark of his gaze on Ja’far’s face. His arms aren’t crossed but his hands are tight at his sides; Ja’far can see the strain in Sinbad’s shoulders without having to look to see the curl of fingers drawn to tense fists. Ja’far takes in the whole of Sinbad’s position, from the set of his feet all the way up to the play of the wind whipping his hair around over his shoulder, and then he drops his chin again to return his attention to what he was doing.

“You can sit down,” he says, speaking sharply as he loops the bandage around his arm. “If you want.”

He’s not sure Sinbad will listen. Ja’far’s advice only ever travels as far as Sinbad wishes to take it, and he can’t get enough of a read from the other’s expression to know what it is he’s looking for. But as Ja’far tightens the knot on his bandage there’s a shift in the shadow over him, and a huff of a sigh, and when he glances back Sinbad has dropped to sit cross-legged next to him instead of looming over him. Their eyes meet for a moment before Ja’far turns his head to look away from Sinbad’s attention. Silence hangs between them, interrupted only by the wind sliding fingers into the loose tendrils of Sinbad’s long hair, and then Ja’far takes a breath and speaks.

“I told you to trust me.” He flexes his arm to test the tension of the bandage wrapped around it. The cut aches dully at the motion but the bandage holds tight without shifting, even when he eases his muscle back to relaxation. “I thought you knew you could rely on me, Sin.”

“I do,” Sinbad says, with force enough that it draws Ja’far’s attention back to the other in spite of himself. Sinbad is still watching him, with something dark and strained behind his eyes and against the pressure of his mouth. “I  _ do _ rely on you. That’s why--” He breaks off. Ja’far sees him grimace in the moment before he turns his head to look back out to the sand of the desert around them instead of holding Ja’far’s gaze.

“That’s why you ignored what I told you as soon as I was out?” Ja’far asks. “My advice is only good so long as I’m around to give it? The minute you thought I was dead--”

“It’s  _ because _ I thought you were dead,” Sinbad snaps, and twists back to fix Ja’far with a look on his face that sweeps aside all Ja’far’s rising temper at once. Sinbad’s eyes are wide and darker than Ja’far has ever seen them before; they seem to crackle with that energy that he wields so easily in his Djinn Equip, although there’s no trace of Baal in him now. It’s just Sinbad behind those golden eyes and that fixed gaze, just another person; and yet Ja’far’s words die on his lips, his speech disintegrating into dust at the sheer force of Sinbad’s attention turning on him.

“I thought you had died,” Sinbad tells him. He’s not shouting; Ja’far thinks he might be less frightening if he were. He’s just speaking, every word falling with the weight of a blow, and some instinct Ja’far thought long since beaten out of his psyche is telling him to retreat, to surrender, to offer his obedience to the service of this impossible, irresistible force bearing down on him. He can’t speak, can’t protest, can’t even turn his head away; he’s held fast, locked as entirely in place as if bound by his own snaking cords by no more than the focus of Sinbad’s eyes on him. “I thought you had killed yourself to give me a chance at victory with Zepar. I thought I had  _ lost _ you.”

Ja’far’s skin is prickling with goosebumps in spite of the desert-heat of the air. His mouth feels dry as parchment, stripped of all the moisture he might be able to form into words to answer. The only reply he can give is to stare at Sinbad, to answer the demand of the other’s words with a responding focus so intent he can feel the rest of the world crumbling away from his awareness, as if the whole of reality is giving way to leave only the two of them, brought to an unbearable intensity by the sheer force of Sinbad’s will constructing a universe around the span of their shoulders.

“I didn’t know what to do,” Sinbad says, and even his admission of uncertainty comes out like a command, an order for the space of the world around them to obey. “I saw you lying there and thought you were gone and--” His eyes are sliding out-of-focus, his attention fracturing through Ja’far right in front of him. Ja’far’s heart is skipping in his chest, speeding on the adrenaline he long since stopped feeling in the midst of combat and always, always feels with Sinbad, and even then he can’t speak, as Sinbad continues to talk through the place where Ja’far is sitting.

“It didn’t matter,” Sinbad says. “Nothing mattered. The Djinn, the dungeon, the company. The world.” His gaze is fixed in the distance, cutting straight through Ja’far as if he’s not there at all. Whatever he’s seeing Ja’far is sure it has nothing to do with the world around them; that has become no more than a backdrop for what Sinbad is seeing. His eyes are endlessly dark; they look like they might be swallowing the light around them, drinking it in as the ocean might drink the rain and show no sign of what it absorbed. Ja’far stares at Sinbad, unable to look away, drawn forward unwillingly into the whirlpool of the other’s presence, and against the length of his spine something shivers, a memory of an emotion he thought he had long since stripped from himself.

They are both still for a moment: Sinbad because he’s forgotten his surroundings, and Ja’far because he is held utterly immobile by the intensity of Sinbad’s presence before him. Then Sinbad blinks, and drags a breath, and when he shakes his head the pressure building around them tears free like spiderwebs scattered by the motion of his head. Ja’far breathes again, uncertain if he had truly stopped or just forgotten to notice the rhythm in his chest, and when Sinbad lifts his head his eyes are clear again, they focus on Ja’far’s face with the clarity of recognition behind his lashes.

“I’m,” Ja’far starts, and finds  _ sorry _ lacking at his lips, however deep Sinbad’s intent struck him. He struggles for a better response and finally settles on “Fine,” aware how weak it sounds even bolstered by the edge of strain on his voice. “I wasn’t going to just leave you like that.” He pushes a laugh past the knot in his throat. Sinbad doesn’t even blink at the bright edge on the sound. “You’re hopeless on your own, Sin.”

Ja’far is trying for teasing, however weak his tone may come out. It’s meant to lighten the pressure in the air, to push aside the thunderstorm thick that has accumulated in the wake of Sinbad’s focus. But Sinbad doesn’t laugh, doesn’t smile; he just stares at Ja’far, and after a moment tips his head into what might be a nod.

“I am,” he says; and then, while Ja’far’s mouth is still dropping open on this unprecedented admission, Sinbad rocks forward to close the space between them. His hand comes out, moving so quickly Ja’far’s well-trained instincts expect a blow against his aching head, but Sinbad’s hand moves past his cheek instead of smacking against it. His fingers slide into Ja’far’s hair, his palm grips hard at the back of the other’s head, and Ja’far is still staring when Sinbad tips his head to the side and comes in to press his mouth against Ja’far’s own.

Ja’far goes entirely still. His training disintegrates, instinct fails him; all that is left in his head is the brief, blinding wave of shock that spells disaster in the middle of a fight. But this isn’t a fight, he isn’t defending his life or trying to steal someone else’s: this is a kiss, the heat of lips fitting to his own, the press of a mouth urging shocking intimacy against his parted lips. Ja’far’s eyes are open, his gaze fixed unseeing into the hazy distance over Sinbad’s shoulder; all his attention is crushing itself into the burn radiating from his mouth as Sinbad electrifies his unresisting lips. Sinbad’s fingers flex against his head, fixing him still as the other presses closer even than he was, and then he’s reaching up, his other hand settling to brace Ja’far’s head between both his palms, and Ja’far’s lashes drop to a surrender he doesn’t consciously think of. It’s involuntary, helpless, unavoidable; it runs counter to everything he has ever been taught, everything he has ever told himself he was. Ja’far is strong, unstoppable, self-contained and self-assured and fiercely independent; and Sinbad kisses him, and he dissolves, his edges vanishing to submission before he can think to pull them around him. Sinbad’s hands urge and Ja’far cants forward, Sinbad’s mouth demands and Ja’far capitulates, and even when Ja’far thinks to lift a hand it is to fumble clumsily for purchase against something steady enough to support the unfocused whirl of his thoughts.

Ja’far has no idea how long it has been when Sinbad sets him free. His eyes are shut, his lips are parted, his breathing is shaky; his fingers are fisted on cloth, which after a long moment he identifies as the front of Sinbad’s shirt. He is tipped in towards Sinbad before him, even the shape of his body curving towards submission, and Sinbad is leaning in in turn to cast Ja’far into the shadow of his presence. Ja’far’s attention seeks traction for itself, finds and sticks to the damp shine of Sinbad’s lips, and he goes on staring, tracking the details of the other’s reaction from the way he draws a breath, and presses his lips tight together, and swallows with force enough for Ja’far to hear the sound of it.

“Don’t ever leave me.” The words are intent, a demand more than a plea; Ja’far’s gaze struggles up to find Sinbad staring at him, his eyes gone to liquid gold beneath the shadow of his heavy lashes. “Promise me, Ja’far.”

Ja’far blinks, and swallows, and dips his chin fractionally without letting go of Sinbad’s gaze. It takes him a moment to find moisture for his mouth again but Sinbad goes on watching him without looking aside. “I promise,” he manages at last. “I promise, Sin. I’ll stay with you.” Ja’far swallows again and shakes his head. “No matter what happens.”

Sinbad jerks his chin down, an acknowledgment from a king, notice from a god. “Good,” he says, and then he leans in once more to crush his mouth against Ja’far’s again. Ja’far’s lashes fall shut in spite of himself; he’s still caught in the midst of his involuntary surrender when the hands at his head ease and Sinbad’s mouth draws away from his. Ja’far lets his head dip forward so his hair will cast his face into shadow while he listens to Sinbad rising and moving back to rejoin the others. It’s only after he can hear the sound of Sinbad’s voice murmuring in conversation that he lifts his head to look.

Sinbad has resumed his earlier position, a little closer to the others than he was before, and he’s engaging in the conversation he all but ignored previously. He looks bright, radiant, like he’s glowing from within with the force of his own existence. Ja’far looks at him, feeling his lips tingle on gifted electricity, hearing his heart racing in his chest, and then he turns away, and turns back to the task of bandaging with fingers shaking worse now than they have in any fight he’s ever been in.


End file.
